


I'm asleep dreaming that I'm awake wondering if I'm dreaming (and it’s the best dream I ever had)

by Caivallon



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M, Movie Reference, wolves and hawks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 15:59:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14835402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon
Summary: “Do you know that hawks and wolves mate for life? The Bishop didn’t even leave us that… not even that.”A story about a medieval knight and his lover separated by the effects of a wicked curse that turns one into a hawk during the day, and the other into a wolf at night.Inspired by the beautiful 1985 movie “Ladyhawke”.





	I'm asleep dreaming that I'm awake wondering if I'm dreaming (and it’s the best dream I ever had)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the 1988 movie reel [ **1988 movie reel** ](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/reel_1988). Okay, originally I just wanted to make a nice little photoset and put a quote from the movie underneath, but as usual, it got out of hand. And when tumblr was a b*** that didn’t allow me to upload my edit without blurring it, I decided to put it here, too. 
> 
> Everyone who doesn’t know the movie (it’s from 1985, so that means it’s older than both Jonny and Patrick) should really go and watch it because it’s beautiful and I probably didn’t do it justice. But I still hope you like it. 
> 
> Cupcakes, icecream and my sincere gratitude go to my lovely beta [ **Jasmine** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gasmsinc/pseuds/gasmsinc) and to [ **allthebros** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthebros/pseuds/allthebros) for organizing this great fest. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://de.tinypic.com?ref=347acmd)  
> 

**I'm asleep dreaming that I'm awake wondering if I'm dreaming (and it’s the best dream I ever had)**

 

Jonathan wakes up at dawn. 

Wakes to another dawn of another day. Another day he has to spend without Patrick on this damned earth, looking for a salvation to a curse that doesn’t exist. And for short moments he allows himself to be weak, to press his eyes shut once more. 

He is bathed in sunlight. Warm and golden, pouring over his body like milk, like holy water. Like the memory of fingertips gracing over his shoulder, lips smiling against the corner of his mouth. And he longs to fall back into darkness, to flee the reality and future of a life that borders on torture. 

His body feels human once again and he knows there is no reason to open his eyes. There is nothing for him except this hunt. This futile revenge that will never satisfy him. When he sleeps in his human body he has at least dreams to look forward to. 

With a groan he rolls over and startles because there is a body next to his. And then there is a _touch_. A soft and shivering touch to the left side of his face. It’s fragile like the wing of a butterfly, tickling like the feather of a bird and sweet as the caress of an angel in which Jon doesn’t believe anymore. 

A body and a touch so familiar that he thinks he’s still dreaming. But not a single one of his fantasies has ever felt this real, and Jon can’t get lost in them—he would never want to wake up again.

So he opens his eyes and looks up at Patrick, who is leaning over him. 

Looks at him with his own human eyes. And stops breathing. 

Patrick is _beautiful_. 

Even more beautiful than eight years ago when Jonathan saw him for the first time, already so bewitching that every man fell in love with him. (But Patrick picked _him_. He chose _him_. He loved only _him_.) Even more beautiful than six years ago when they exchanged their vows in secrecy and the bishop in his insane jealousy made a pact with the devil and cursed them both. 

Patrick’s face is still completely dyed in shadows, the rays of sunlight that have changed Jonathan back to human have not reached him yet, and his eyes are bluer than ever; wide with wonder, framed with long lashes. What before was boyish soft in his features is angular now, sharper, but also more delicate, with a strong chin and lush pink lips. The skin is pale like marble from years of moonlit nights, the hair shorter and darker and Jonathan never wants to see anything else for the rest of his life. 

Maybe he went insane, maybe it’s a hallucination. Maybe it’s another cruel punishment for the sins he committed in his desperate quest to break the curse or get at least revenge. (Maybe it’s his punishment for having Patrick’s love—God doesn’t allow his angels to worship anyone but him.)

It’s Patrick’s barely audible sob that tears Jonathan from his awe. A sound of disbelief and thankfulness. A sound of pure elation and love that he can almost taste on his own tongue, a sound that he has to feel with his hands and so he pushes himself upright, brings his body closer, reaches for Patrick: every single bone in his body sighing with longing, with alleviation that he is able to touch him again. With the heartbreaking throbbing pain of six years without him in his chest and the unbelievable bliss that he can _finally_ wipe them from his memory and recover from the dreadful emptiness that is life without Patrick. 

His fingertips tingle with expectation, from the thrill to whisper over the elegant arch of Patrick’s cheekbones which are glowing golden in the early morning sunlight that’s now gracing his beautiful face, illuminating the blond curls (so much shorter than he remembers). The sight is as enticing as the first time Jonathan laid eyes upon him, enough to make him believe again in notions of hope, divinity and salvation and yet he cannot take it in, cannot take his gaze from Patrick’s. The startling cold blue is softer now, turned to a pale colour that is almost grey, but still so expressive that Jonathan trembles. His fingertips tingle and he wants to cry when they brush over the patch of skin that was once decorated with sweet freckles. Wants to cry the tears that are now shimmering in Patrick’s eyes—not longer any shade of blue, but as golden as the early day. Familiar…but no longer Patrick’s. Because the tears are not happy tears and the disbelieving delighted smile has turned into a grim smirk. 

Patrick is in _pain_. 

Patrick is in _distress_. 

The skin Jonathan is touching is not Patrick’s skin anymore; it’s pale and brown and speckled. Still soft, still rich like velvet, but feathers. And the sound that escapes Patrick’s mouth is not a sob but a desperate screech. Not human. _Birdlike_. 

It happened so fast. It _happens_ so fast. And Jonathan can’t do anything to stop it, to save Patrick (he would have given everything. Would’ve sold his soul to the devil). Can’t do anything but _watch_.

Patrick is melting in front of his eyes, fighting the change, fingers that are no longer fingers but claws digging into Jonathan’s thigh, leaving bloody traces that he doesn’t even notice. The change is painful (Jonathan knows better than anyone), body shrinking in places, growing in others, organs shifting, extending, molding themselves into a new ever-foreign cast—distorting itself into an abnormal shape, into an inhuman form. But seeing the expression of pure panic and blank despair on Patrick’s face is even more crucial. 

It is not Patrick’s ethereal face anymore. It is already the one of the beautiful hawk; his companion and friend for many years, trice as long as he had with Patrick and everyday as frustrating and maddening and hated as the one before. 

But never as hated as now. As there is nothing in Jonathan’s hands but feathers, the small frame of a bird. Slender and elegant. Familiar and beloved. 

But not Patrick’s. 

Never enough. 

He screams and screams after the hawk flies away. Too many emotions for his weak human body that is trembling under the impact, hurting in places he never hurt before. He curls into himself and cries without tears until his voice is hoarse, his thigh bleeding from the feverish way he digs his fingers into the wounds (the only trace that Patrick _was_ real, that it was really Patrick and not the most enticing dream he ever had) and everything he sees is red. Blood, rage and love. 

A love that is nothing but sorrow and desperation and that is still the most beautiful thing he will ever have. 

 

_

Thank you for reading ♥


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